


Ghost Girl

by Katydid_99



Series: If the Shoe Fits [3]
Category: Cinderella - All Media Types
Genre: Annabelle needs a hug, Depression, Disownment, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eleanor is trying, Flashbacks, Forgiveness, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, Lesbian Character, Really she was awful, Stepmother's A+ Parenting, Tags Contain Spoilers, implied depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 05:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13093617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katydid_99/pseuds/Katydid_99
Summary: After moving into the palace, Annabelle's emotional state dwindles. Eleanor tries to help, but how can she when she doesn't even know why she was disowned?





	Ghost Girl

Eleanor didn’t blame Annabelle for what happened to her.

Placing the blame for such a thing was difficult, to say the least. She didn’t necessarily blame anyone, because though there were obvious people at fault they had reasons for doing what they did.

Her stepmother was a the top of this list. She was the one who set the whole thing in motion, making the latter fifteen years of her life a literal hell on Earth. However, being the empathetic person she was, knew that she was hurting on the inside. Being a working woman in this day and age with a failing company and a string of dead husbands on the side? It made what she did to her by no means acceptable, but she could at least understand.

Stephanie was a little more complicated. For one, neither of her stepsisters did the worst of the horrors she faced. As she recently discovered, neither of them even knew. Secondly, their mother raised them to believe that doing such things to people is okay. On the other hand, Stephanie had been eight when Eleanor’s father died and her life fell apart. Call her old fashioned, but Eleanor thought that eight was more than old enough to understand the fundamental differences between right and wrong. 

But Annabelle…

Annabelle wasn’t yet three when this all started; a little more than a baby. She literally didn’t remember a time when her stepsister wasn’t a servant. Eleanor doesn’t know this for certain, but she’s pretty sure she didn’t even realize they were family until she was ten. Eleanor had heard somewhere that people aren’t born to hate; they have to be taught it from birth. If there ever was proof of that statement, it was her younger stepsister.

On top of that, for whatever reason, Annabelle was always the nicest to her. She’d sneak her the food she refused to eat, she’d trust her with secrets, and she’d always go to her to rant about her mother, which gave them something of a trust-built relationship. Her stepmother was a very particular woman with unrealistic expectations for both of her daughters, but Annabelle seemed to get it worse than Stephanie. 

So, after finding her freshly-disowned, hurt, and quite literally tossed to the side on the street, of course she let her come to the palace. She did play a part in messing up her life, but in the grand scheme of things she was just as much a victim in this as she herself was.

***

Despite now living together once more, Annabelle seemed very far away.

Eleanor barely even saw her over the next several days. The extent of their contact was a few fleeting glimpses of her younger stepsister as she slipped into libraries and galleries all over the palace. Annabelle was no artist or storyteller, but she had always appreciated those who could. It was very rare of her to be seen without a book or two at Le Chateau Tremaine.

Those fleeting glances barely counted in the princess’s book because the first few times she didn’t even recognize her. Before, Annabelle wouldn’t be caught dead without being dressed to the nines. She’d always have the most exquisite dresses with precious gems embroidered into the rich fabric and flouncy petticoats made of silk. There was an entire closet dedicated to just her accessories; everything from shoes and hats to stockings and gloves to jewelry and parasols. Even when she’d bring her breakfast in the morning she would already have her hair and makeup done to doll-like perfection. Now, Eleanor was pretty sure she hadn’t changed clothes since the first night. Annabelle went about the palace in the robe she had lent her over a simple linen nightgown and slippers. Her mousy brown hair hung naturally at her shoulders and her face was free of cosmetics. 

Eleanor had always hoped that she’d ease off the modifications just a little (all that work must be dreadful for her skin and hair), but this felt wrong somehow. It didn’t stop there. When Eleanor brought her to the palace, she expected Annabelle to make full use of the palace staff. But after asking around a little, she was surprised to learn that Annabelle had barely sought any of them out; not for food or clothes or even directions to navigate the grounds that even Marcus got lost in sometimes. It wasn’t just that Annabelle wasn’t doing what she normally did, it was that she seemed not to be doing anything.

To be honest, it scared her a little.

***

The two had their first real exchange about a week later. It was actually totally by accident. Eleanor was just on her way to a fitting when she happened to take a glance into one of the king’s galleries. Annabelle was seated on one of the plush velvet benches, staring up at a portrait of two men in dark clothes. Taking advantage of the opportunity Eleanor quickly scurried of to the kitchen, organized a tea tray, and made her way back without Annabelle leaving or spilling the tea or cakes. 

“Hi,” she said as she entered the gallery. Annabelle stiffened slightly but did not turn around. Eleanor seat next to her and put the tray on the small table in front of them. “You weren’t at breakfast this morning, so I thought I’d bring you something.”

Annabelle glanced at the tray before her. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely, as though she hadn’t spoken much in all this time. When the girl made no move for the treats, Eleanor leaned forward and started on two cups of tea.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Eleanor shushed, then jokingly added, “I’ve only been out of the house for a few months. I still know how you take your tea.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Annabelle immediately looked back up at the painting and clenched her hands in her lap. Her eyes looked glossy, like she was about to cry. Eleanor opened her mouth to say something in consolation, but thought better of it and focused on making the tea.

As she added three spoons of sugar to Annabelle’s cup, she looked up at the art on the wall. “Nice painting.”

“Raphael, 1518.  _ Self Portrait with a Friend,”  _ Annabelle responded. The man sitting looked up at the painted face of the other man, who looked ahead but had his hands on the other’s shoulder and hip in an almost tender way. “How do you think they know each other?”

Eleanor shrugged as she stirred in the sugar before adding cream to hers and lemon to Annabelle’s. “Fellow artists, perhaps?” The other hummed noncommittally and accepted the cup offered to her. She took a tiny sip, then immediately frowned at the drink.

“You used regular sugar,” Annabelle said flatly. “You  _ know  _ I only use sugar cubes.”

_ Oops.  _ “I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t thinking-”

“Obviously!” Annabelle snapped. “All this time and you still don’t know how to make a proper cup of tea? Are you dense?”

Funny thing about being verbally berated your whole life: the insults never stop hurting, you just learn to look like they don’t. It was just like being back at Le Chateau Tremaine, except for after saying it Annabelle somehow managed to pale even more and hastily got to her feet. The teacup fell to the floor, splashing both of their feet with warm tea.

“I-” Annabelle stammered. Her eyes were wide with tears threatening to spill over. “I’m sorry,” her voice shattered and she dashed out of the room.

“Annabelle, wait!” But she was already gone. Moments later a maid came in with a cloth. 

“What in heaven’s name happened here?” she asked as she soaked up the tea cooling on the marble floor.

“I wish I knew,” Eleanor muttered. She helped the maid with the mess and told her to help herself to the remaining tea and cake, then hurried down the hall to make it to her fitting on time.

***

This pattern would continue over the next several days. Eleanor would catch Annabelle somewhere, she’d join her with a tea tray, and they’d talk. 

Well, Eleanor would talk. Annabelle would be silent through these sessions, either looking at the palace’s splendors or absorbed in a book. The only time she got some sort of answer out of her was when she asked what she was reading.

“It’s called  Carmilla ,” Annabelle told her in the same quiet, hoarse voice. “It’s really good.”

“Is that the vampire novella you told me about?” she asked, but Annabelle had already retreated back into herself. The girl still had the same blank expression as in the days before. Her eyes always had this quality of dewiness, like she was about to cry. Sometimes tears started running down her face for absolutely no reason at all, and when she realized it she’d drift away.

That’s all she seemed to be doing these days: drifting. Drifting through the palace and her life.

“It’s like she’s a ghost,” she told Marcus one night as they got into bed. She hated feeling this helpless and talking with her fiance always helped a little. “She’s barely existing anymore. I know I can get her to open up, but I don’t know how.”

“She feels guilty,” he said simply, giving his pillow a quick fluff. “And it’s consuming her. It’s a dark cloud, but she’ll eventually come out on the other side. It’ll just take a little time.”

“She doesn’t need time. She needs a friend.”

Marcus was insatiably charming, but he had a way of being quite blunt when someone needed it. He rolled over, facing her, and stroked her cheek gently. “What she needs is to tell someone what happened.”

_ Oh,  _ Eleanor thought dumbly. It hadn’t even occurred to her than in the almost-two weeks Annabelle had been at the palace, she still hadn’t told a soul why she was disowned. 

“You can’t help her if you don’t know what’s wrong,” Marcus continued. “If you really want to help, find out.”

Eleanor touched his hand on her face. “How?” 

He pulled her into his chest. “You’ll think of something. You always do.”

***

_ “Cinderella, get in here!” _

_ “Yes, Annabelle?” _

_ “Close the door behind you.” _

_ “Yes, Annabelle.” _

_ “And lock it, too.” _

_ “Yes Annabelle.” _

_ “...” _

_ “What do you need?” _

_ “I have a… I need to do an experiment.” _

_ “An experiment?” _

_ “Yes, an experiment. Don’t make me repeat myself.” _

_ “Are you having trouble with your lessons?” _

_ “Are you calling me stupid?” _

_ “No, Annabelle.” _

_ “Humph. And no, this is a personal experiment.” _

_ “Oh?” _

_ “You are the only one who can help. Because you work for me, you are not allowed to say no.” _

_ “Yes, Annabelle. I know.” _

_ “And Mother and Stephanie can’t help me because we are blood.” _

_ “Whatever do you mean by- mph!” _

_ “...” _

_ “...” _

_ “...There. Okay.” _

_ “...” _

_ “This didn’t happen. You will not speak of this to anyone. If Mother or Stephanie find out, I shall say you forced me. Do you understand?” _

_ “...” _

_ “Answer me, Cinderella!” _

_ “...Yes, Annabelle.” _

Eleanor’s eyes snapped open, but she did not move from her the covers. True to form, Marcus was already awake and sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Another nightmare?” he asked softly.

“No,” sat up and ran a hand through her hair. That memory, the painting, the book… it all made sense.  “Actually, I think I know what’s going on.”

***

The next day Eleanor tracked Annabelle down in her room. The girl was seated on the edge of her bed, wrapped in her robe and staring blankly at the wall, an open book on her lap. She was pale, absent-faced, and on the verge of tears; no different than she’s been this entire time. 

Eleanor took a seat next to her on the bed, the mattress dipping further under their combined weight. “I had a dream about us last night,” she said with no preamble. “From back when we were little.”

Annabelle glanced at her from the corner of her eye and Eleanor continued. “It was when I was fifteen, and you had just turned thirteen. You had called me up to your room and said you needed to do an experiment. I had thought you were having trouble with your science tutor again- you always were better at English than anything else. Anyway, you said it was personal and before I could find out anything else you kissed me on the mouth.”

She paused and looked at her stepsister. Annabelle had shrunk deeper into her robe, her hands clenching and unclenching the soft fabric. “After that you had me promise not to tell and nothing like that ever happened again,” she added. “I’d actually forgotten about that day until last night. Strange, huh?” 

Eleanor touched her hand gently and let her voice drop to an even gentler whisper. “Ana?” she said. “Do you like women?”

Annabelle went completely still and silent, then her eyes scrunched shut and she buried her face in her hands. Eleanor could hear muffled sobs as her back shook and the tips of her ears went very red.  _ That’s all the answer I need. _ She was about to say something after that when a broken little voice stopped her.

“Mother did not raise a freak,” Annabelle whimpered from behind her hands. It was so quiet and garbled by sobs that unless you were sitting right next to her in a dead silent room (as Eleanor was), you would have missed it. 

Anger promptly flared in Eleanor’s chest.  _ That does it,  _ she thought as she grabbed her stepsister’s shoulders and forced her to look at her. “Annabelle, you are  _ not  _ a freak,” she said forcefully. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with you or who you’re attracted to. For your mother to disown you for such a thing is wrong. For her to disown you  _ period _ is wrong. She is wrong about that and she is wrong about you. Do you understand that?”

It wasn’t until the end that she realized that she was shouting, which probably wasn’t the best option. Annabelle had tears still streaming down her face. She was silent with a mixture of shock and confusion. “Why are you so nice to me?” she finally whispered.

Eleanor let her hands fall away. “Because everyone deserves kindness.”

Annabelle shook her head. “I tortured you for years. Threatened you, exhausted you… Mother beat you for years and I never knew anything. Even if I did know I wouldn’t have done anything because that’s just the way things were. I should have been disowned years ago. I should have been slapped a thousand times. I should have actually thought for once and realized what I was doing was wrong. I....” she trailed off and pulled her robe a little tighter. She sniffled, then finished. “I will spend the rest of my life being sorry.”

“And I forgive you.”

For the first time in these weeks, Annabelle smiled. It was ruefull and humorless, as though she expected Eleanor to say such a thing, but it was a smile nonetheless.

“I think,” she said, looking at her toes, “I need a little more time to forgive myself before I can believe you.”

***

The next day Eleanor saw Annabelle slip into the library in a pale green dress with a high collar and dropped waistline. She smiled to herself. It wasn’t much, but at least it wasn’t a robe anymore. It gave her hope that, maybe, things were going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Things will get better for Annabelle soon. I promise.
> 
> "Self-Portrait With a Friend": http://totallyhistory.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/Self-Portrait-with-a-Friend-by-Raphael.jpg
> 
> Carmilla: One of the earliest works of vampire fiction, preceding Dracula by 26 years. It's also the original source of lesbian Gothic literature.


End file.
